


The One Where Dean's Professors Are Insane

by Moorishflower



Series: A Cold Academic Hell [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's got more than enough to be concerned about, what with his one professor who verbally assaults people and the other professor who actually beats people up and calls it "teaching." But, somehow, the thing that should be concerning him <i>most</i> is the thing that's keeping him sane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Dean's Professors Are Insane

On the first day of the new semester, it rains.

The snow washes away in clumps of ice, and the campus grounds are left sodden and freezing, but not freezing enough to replace the snow that was lost. Everyone looks drenched and miserable, and Dean, who doesn’t have an umbrella (and the next time he sees Sam’s smug, dry face smirking at him he’s going to punch it), is substantially more drenched and miserable than those who do have one. He comfort himself with the thought that at least he has all his books, and this semester he’ll get to take a physical education class, which, he thinks, is going to be more his style than English or math classes.

He has yet to see Castiel. He hasn’t emailed the guy back because, to be honest, he…wants to see him. Wants to see Castiel’s face, real and in the flesh, rather than just a .jpeg on the computer screen.

First, though, he has to attend his classes.

Sam has once again convinced him to take a class together, even though Dean doesn’t know the first thing about religion or religious studies. He prefers to keep that shit out of his life as much as possible – not out of disdain or dislike for the various religions, mind, but out of consideration for how much trouble they tend to bring along with them. Sam’s always been the one who was into praying when he was a kid, saying grace, all that jazz. Still, Dean has the idea that, maybe, if the professor’s interesting, it won’t be so bad. If nothing else, he can always sleep in the back row and then get Sam’s notes later. The advantages of having a huge nerd for a brother.

He discovers very quickly, however, that sleeping isn’t really necessary.

“Do you think the professor’s going to show up?”

Sam glances at his watch, and then at the clock on the wall. There’s an eleven-minute time difference between the two, but Dean’s willing to place his bet on the accuracy of Sam’s watch. “Don’t know.”

“Isn’t there that rule, though?”

“Rule?”

“Five minutes for a TA, ten for a professor, twenty for a doctor?”

Sam rolls his eyes so forcefully that Dean thinks, for a second, they might fly out of their sockets. “That’s not a _rule_.”

“Should be.” Dean glances at the wall clock, mentally subtracting eleven minutes. The professor is almost ten minutes late. Technically, if that rule _were_ real, he’d be able to leave by now.

Unfortunately, that’s the exact moment that the door to the lecture hall opens, and a man saunters – fucking _saunters_ , who the hell actually does that? – inside.

He’s wearing the most expensive-looking suit that Dean has ever seen, and Dean once worked for a month at a catering service that did proms and weddings, so he’s seen his fair share of fancy clothes. Everything that the guy is wearing is all sleek, black lines, accented by the dark red tie that’s wrapped around his neck like a fall of blood. His shoes, Dean thinks bitterly, are probably Italian leather. That’s what’s expensive now, right?

“ _Huh_ ,” Sam says, as the guy approaches the front of the lecture hall, and the entire room falls silent.

“Good morning, class,” he says. He’s got a smooth, accented voice – British, Dean is pretty sure – and it carries easily through the room. It’s also the most arrogant freaking voice that Dean has ever heard, with a note of smug superiority in it that makes Dean’s spine want to curl up and then crawl out of his body. Sam, too, seems skeptical – he’s staring at the professor with an expression that suggests both mild amusement and vague discontent. Dean nudges Sam’s side with his elbow.

“Bet he grades like a bastard,” he mutters, and Sam shrugs, but doesn’t disagree.

“I have several rules that I must ask you to follow, if you are to be a functioning member of this course,” the professor continues. “The more mundane of which can be found on your syllabus, which will be handed around to you as soon as I can bully one of your peers into doing the job for me. If I can’t, well, I suppose you don’t get a syllabus.”

“Definitely a bastard,” Sam whispers.

“Rule number one is that I do not hold with familiarity between students and their professors. You will address me as Professor Crowley, or, should you wish to get on my good side, Doctor Crowley. I will also accept ‘your majesty,’ ‘holiest of holies,’ and ‘God.’”

The crowd of seated students erupts into murmurs, and Professor Crowley smirks. “I trust that, as you _are_ taking a course in religious studies, you are pleased with the first blasphemy of the day. There will be many more to come. The second rule is that this campus is not a dry campus, and, as such, it is perfectly legal to possess and transport alcohol across the grounds.”

“What?” Sam whispers, and Dean opens his mouth to say that he has no idea whatsoever, except Professor Crowley chooses that moment to pull a bottle of what looks like wine out from behind the podium at the front of the hall. The murmuring around them grows louder.

“The third rule,” Professor Crowley says, “is that this is Concord grape juice, and any student who says otherwise, either to me or to any other staff or faculty at this university, will be given a failing grade. No exceptions.”

“Is that a wine glass?” Dean murmurs, as Professor Crowley reaches once again behind the podium, and Sam quickly shushes him.

“It’s a grape juice glass,” he says, when Dean gives him an incredulous look. Dean snorts.

“Well, this’ll be interesting, if nothing else.”

“Now,” Professor Crowley announces, “which lucky soul would like to pass out this massive stack of syllabi for me?” The hall remains silent. “No one? How about you, there, with the rosary? I hate to say it, but if you’re taking this class to become closer to Jesus, you’re going to be very disappointed.” The girl reaches up, touching her rosary and frowning. “No? Then the young man there, in the Alpha Phi Gamma shirt. Judging by your popped collar, vacant expression, and the fact that you have yet to remove your cap, I’m assuming that you’re taking this course because you were raised…oh, let me think…Roman Catholic, and you thought it would be an easy elective.”

“This guy is a _dick_ ,” Sam mutters, sounding appalled. Dean’s sure he’ll think so if the guy ever decides to insult _him_ , but, for now, he’s content to watch Professor Crowley roast the rest of the class. It _is_ kind of funny, although, judging by Sam’s expression, Dean might be the only one seeing it that way.

Professor Crowley’s eyes scan the crowd, and then, with laser-like precision, fall upon Sam.

“You, with the stupid hair.”

Sam jerks, and then raises a hand, pointing at himself. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You seem like slightly less of a gibbering mess than your peers. Be a dear and hand out the syllabi.”

Sam shrugs, and then, slowly, gets to his feet and picks his way through the aisle and to the front of the class. Sam, at six-foot-four, makes Professor Crowley look tiny; the guy has to tilt his head back slightly in order to look at Sam’s face. “My, they certainly grow them large where you come from. Don’t suppose you’re from Alaska? I hear there are a great deal of moose up there, and you’d fit right in.”

“I’m from Kansas, sir.”

“What the hell is in Kansas? Never mind, I don’t care. Here are the syllabi, and do try not to let your massive limbs trip you. I don’t feel like waiting for you to pick everything up.”

Dean watches this entire exchange, shaking with silent laughter. Crowley is a massive douchebag, sure, but his insults are the kinds of things that he and Sam throw at each other all the time. Beyond the initial sting of being singled out, there’s not a lot of bite to them.

Well. Not for Sam, anyways.

Sam hands out the syllabi, passing them out row by row while Professor Crowley pours himself a glass of wine at the front of the hall.

“Now,” he says, delicately cupping the wine glass in his palm. “I hope you brought your textbooks, because we’re going to jump right into this. Moose, I hope you’ve got a friend you can copy notes from. Since this is Jewish and Christian foundations, we’re going to start with the history of the religions. Later on, I’ll tell you precisely why ninety percent of the Bible is bullshit, and then we’ll move into how and why God has abandoned each and every one of us. Sound fair? Excellent. Christianity originated from…”

Dean groans softly in his throat, and then yanks out his notebook and pen and starts scribbling as fast as he can. Sam takes way better notes than he does, and he doesn’t want his little brother to miss out on anything just because he got roped into playing delivery boy for the professor.

He can already tell it’s going to be a long semester, but at least he has Tuesdays and Thursdays – and, by extension, Castiel – to look forward to.

~

Tuesday arrives, and Dean is starting to rethink his position on taking a class with Castiel.

“Oh God,” he says faintly. Sam stares at him, uncomprehending.

“Dude, he’s just your advisor.”

Dean scowls. “It’s not that.”

“Then _what_?”

 _Shit,_ Dean thinks. _I can’t tell him that I’m worried about seeing Castiel because I’m doing this stupid infatuation dance thing, and I can’t tell him that Castiel sent me a Christmas card, and…_

“Fencing,” he blurts out, and – and Dean honestly didn’t think it was possible – Sam’s brows furrow even more, his forehead becoming a craggy cliff face of confused suspicion.

“What?”

“I’m, uh, worried about fencing.”

Sam sighs. “Okay, Dean, I’ll bite. Why are you worried about fencing?”

 _Shit. Didn’t think this through._ He goes with the first thing that pops into his head. “I’ve heard the professor is a hard-ass.”

“After Crowley, I’m sure they’ll seem like a piece of cake.”

“Stop tempting me with food analogies.”

“I’m surprised you even know what an analogy is.”

Dean shoves at Sam’s shoulder, grumbling, and Sam laughs.

“So…I take it you made up with your psychology friend, then?”

Dean grabs his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. The student center is busy, as always, and he wants to get out before the lunch rush hits. He’s got fencing to go to, and then, after that, first year seminar. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re a lot less pissy than you were a while ago.”

“Maybe we have, maybe we haven’t. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“So there _has_ been kissing?”

Dean shoves at Sam’s shoulder again, and then turns his back and marches out of the center, certain - _mostly_ certain – that Sam still doesn’t know anything. He’ll have to remember to ask Sam about _his_ secret boyfriend, later on. Just as a bit of revenge.

As it turns out, though, by the end of his fencing class, vengeance is the last thing on Dean’s mind.

The professor (“Call me Rufus, or call me ‘sir,’ I don’t hold with any of this ‘professor’ bullcrap.”) is not only the hard-ass that Dean’s heard him to be, he’s also a relentless perfectionist. They’re all beginners, and it’s supposed to be an introductory class, and yet Rufus’ first course of action is to get them all suited up and to pair them off against each other, just to test their existing skills. A few of the students dominate the rounds, and Dean learns, later, that they’d taken fencing lessons when they were children.

Rufus’ response to that is to disarm them, one by one, and then knock them to the floor. Luckily, there are mats to break their fall, but they all end the first class with some sort of injury to show for their efforts.

Dean leaves the physical education building with a sore tailbone and bruises beginning to form on his shoulders and chest. The uniforms they have to wear aren’t very well padded, probably because they belong to the school and have been used countless times before, and he’s feeling the results of that now. He’s not looking forward to walking all the way to the Hawthorn building, where his next class is.

God. His next class. First year seminar. He’s not entirely certain how he feels about that. On the one hand, it’s almost exciting, because he’ll get to see Castiel again. Hear him talk. And Castiel had said that…he wants to consider them _friends_ , and friends is at least one step closer than Dean had been before.

On the other hand, he’s not sure he’ll be able to take sitting there, mixed in with the other students, watching Castiel’s write on the chalkboard, his long fingers dusted with white, glasses perched on the edge of his nose while he talks in detail about whatever subject they’re going to…

Dean grimaces, and swings his backpack around until he’s holding it, slightly, in front of himself. God _damn_ the stupid optimism of his dick.

The walk to the Hawthorn building is even more uncomfortable after that.

Luckily, he gets there a few minutes early, and is able to find a seat by a window, where the cold air wafts through the crack between glass and plaster and blows over his face. It helps snap him out of it, a little bit, and by the time the room begins to fill with students (Dean’s slightly dismayed to realize that he’s the oldest one here) he’s feeling almost…confident. Maybe he has a chance. After all, it’s not like there’s a huge age difference between he and Castiel. Maybe, after class, he can go and ask Castiel if he’d like to…

And then the door to the classroom opens, and everything that Dean was thinking, everything he was planning to do, flies out of his head like cotton in a windstorm.

Castiel strides into the room, carrying a briefcase and heading immediately for the chalkboard and then turning smartly on his heel. His glasses are perched precariously at the tip of his nose, which, along with his cheeks, is flushed red from the cold outside. He reaches up and adjusts his glasses, absently, as though it’s a motion that has become so ingrained in him that he has forgotten that he’s doing it at all, and then sets the briefcase on the desk at the front of the room and pops it open.

He’s wearing a tan trench coat, something that looks like he probably found it at a thrift store or something, because it’s _way_ too large for someone as skinny as Castiel. The back of the coat flares out behind him like bird wings, and, at that moment, the sun angles itself just right, the light spearing through the window and illuminating the ground around Castiel’s feet. For a second he almost looks…ethereal. Beautiful.

And then the room falls silent, and Dean realizes that he’s gaping like an idiot, and Castiel is _looking_ at him. Dean quickly clears his throat, and shoves himself down into his seat, confidence temporarily banked. Castiel blinks owlishly at him, and then slides his coat from his shoulders and drapes it over the desk.

He’s wearing a sweater vest. A blue, _argyle_ sweater vest, a slightly off-white dress shirt beneath, and a thin, jewel-blue tie pulled snug underneath his collar. And he’s wearing khakis. Tan, _pleated_ khakis. Dean wasn’t even aware that people still _wore_ those, and yet here Castiel is, proudly sporting his own pair.

Dean realizes that he’s staring again, and turns his eyes away. Luckily, no one seems to have caught him.

“Good afternoon,” Castiel says, softly, everything about his stance and his tone exuding quiet confidence. Like he knows he’s smart, just as long as you get him in the right position to show it. He’s never been like that when he was just _talking_ with Dean – he’d always seemed a little awkward, then. A little out of his depth. But now Dean is looking, unmistakably, at a _professor_.

He is uncomfortably aware of the fact that there is only a desk and his jeans separating his stubborn erection from the rest of the world.

“My name is Castiel Novak.” Castiel turns around, deftly picking up a piece of chalk and beginning to write his name on the board. The letters sprawl, elegant and beautiful. Dean watches the movement of Castiel’s fingers against the chalk, entranced. “You may call me Professor Novak, or Castiel, if you so desire. I am here to teach you the ins and outs, so to speak, of this university. I do not doubt that some of you – perhaps many of you – have already learned how to utilize the library, how to make an appointment with your advisor, and other such necessities. However, many of you may not know how to make an appointment with career services. You may know nothing about internships, graduate school, or the many extracurricular activities available to you here on campus. You may not know where you want to take your life. That is why I am here.”

Castiel sets the chalk down and then turns around, resting his palms against the desk. His eyes, after a moment, find Dean, and linger on him. Dean tries to swallow, but his throat is as dry as an old bone.

“I am here to help you succeed,” Castiel says, quiet, earnest. “Whatever it is that you desire out of your college experience, I am here to tell you how you can achieve it. To that end, I do encourage all of you to visit me during my office hours at least once this semester, in the event that you wish to discuss your goals privately. You will find my office and my hours on the syllabus that I will give to you presently.”

And then he leans forward, opening his briefcase and pulling out a sheaf of papers. He begins to hand them out, and Dean, sitting in the very front row, gets to take one _directly from Castiel_.

Their fingers brush.

Castiel smiles at him.

“Hello, Dean,” he says softly, Dean takes the small stack of syllabi and numbly separates one from the rest, then passes the lot over his shoulder to the gum-chewing girl behind him.

“Hey,” he says faintly, and Castiel nods, and then moves on to the next row.

Dean spends the rest of the class listening to Castiel’s lecture with half an ear. Part of it is a getting to know you exercise – it’s a small class, and they’re all asked to sit up a little straighter, at one point, and to say their name and their intended major. Dean is the only person who says he’s only going for an associate’s, and he feels weirdly small and out of place. He doesn’t like it. Castiel, though, smiles at him again.

Everything after that is sort of a blur. He dimly recalls something about how to use the library’s online catalogue, but beyond that he’s completely in the dark, and it seems like the next time he blinks an hour has passed, and people are beginning to pack up their bags and put on their coats.

Castiel stands at the front of the classroom, staring down into his briefcase, arranging papers. All Dean has to do is get up, approach the desk, and say, “Do you want to go get some coffee sometime?” Simple. Easy.

Dean pushes himself up out of his desk, nearly tripping over his own backpack. Castiel glances up.

“Dean,” he says, warmly, and straightens up. His glasses slip, slightly, down the bridge of his nose, and he pushes at them with his middle finger. “How was your winter break?”

“It was good. Me and Sam, we made dinner, opened presents…you know.”

“Hopefully you are feeling relaxed and refreshed for the new semester.”

Dean shrugs. “I mean, I’m taking harder classes, but I’ll get by.”

“I’m sure you will. May I ask how you did on your finals? It is only that I am already certain that your grades were more than satisfactory.”

Dean raises his hand, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. Nothing below a B.” Castiel nods.

“As I expected. You give yourself too little credit, Dean.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean takes a deep breath; Castiel is staring at him, head tilted, slightly, like a curious bird, his eyes an unearthly blue and _fuck_ , he’s still wearing those glasses, and Dean’s only too aware of how close he is to the edge of arousal. Christ, he hasn’t been this horny since he was _fifteen_. “Listen, Castiel…”

“Yes, Dean?”

 _This is too big. Too serious. Too soon._ Castiel ‘s gaze is too intense, and Dean hasn’t felt like this for a long time. It’s like he’s spiraling out of control, but it’s so brilliant, so _awesome_ , that he doesn’t want it to stop.

He hasn’t felt like this since Lisa.

 _Too big. Too serious._

 _Do you want to get coffee sometime?_

“Thanks,” he says, and then clears his throat. “For the card.”

Castiel’s eyes crinkle at the corners, a smile that doesn’t entirely reach his mouth. “I am glad. I was worried that I had…given the wrong impression.”

“No! Well, I mean, you did, at first…”

“My brother informs me that the social niceties are not my forté.”

“Everyone’s got their strengths, right?”

“Indeed.” Castiel beams at him, and Dean takes a hesitant step back, crouching down and picking up his backpack.

“I gotta go,” he says quickly. “My next class is pretty soon. I…thanks. For everything.” Dean turns around, heading for the door. Castiel’s voice reaches him just as he’s stepping across the threshold.

“I do occasionally consider you to be more of a friend than a student,” he says, and Dean pauses, there on the border between everything, and, after a moment, he takes a step forward.

“Same here,” he says, making no effort to keep his voice down, but still unsure as to whether Castiel hears him or not. _Too big. Too serious._

He needs to think on this.  



End file.
